Paper Wings
by anaplasia
Summary: Dean finds Castiel in the rain.


"You shouldn't be outside," says Dean. He sits down next to Castiel, not caring that the ground is sopping wet. "It's cold. You'll get hypothermia."

Castiel's knees are tucked up underneath his chin, and Dean can't help but notice how incredibly vulnerable he looks like that. Both his suit and his trenchcoat are soaked through and droplets of water run, unnoticed, down his face. His eyes are so fixed upon a point in the distance that Dean wonders (for a moment) whether the guy is actually conscious.

(Both of them have been avoiding having this conversation for a very long time.)

Shaking his head to clear it of thoughts, Dean lifts a hand and slides it under Castiel's chin. Castiel stiffens a little at the touch but doesn't pull away, and Dean thinks his eyes seem greyer against the colour of the clouds. "You doing all right, Cas?"

It's a stupid question, and Dean knows it. Of course Castiel isn't doing all right. The dude just wrecked Heaven, caused all of his family to fall. A small part of Dean is glad – horribly, spitefully, glad – that most of the angels are basically powerless now (no more freaky time travel, no more of the bother of putting up angel warding) and he hates himself for it.

"I'm…scared, Dean," Castiel confesses. His tone is quiet, defeated. He's biting on his lower lip and it's going to bleed in a few seconds if he doesn't stop. "I'm scared – scared of all…this. It's too big. I was stupid…I should have realised that Metatron's intentions were evil. But I didn't. I failed. I – I destroyed Heaven." A bead of water drips from his eyelashes, and the sight of it makes Dean wonder why he always notices such trivial things when he's around Castiel.

Castiel always seems to end up broken. Maybe it's because angels weren't meant to feel, or even think for themselves, really, and trying to get something to do what it's not built for is always dangerous. Dean knows that much. He's worked with cars and engines before, and he doubts there's much of a difference between an angel and a machine. But Castiel has always been the odd one out amongst his own kind, for as long as Dean can remember: more sentient, more feeling. (Too much heart always was his problem).

"Cas, nobody in the world blames you," says Dean, because it's the truth, and he would say pretty much anything to Castiel at this point. "You did the best you could. It's okay, Cas, everyone makes mistakes. You couldn't have known Metatron was tricking you."

But Castiel is shaking, now, and Dean suspects it's not because of the rain or the cold. "The angels, they've fallen, all of them. Because of me. I…" Castiel's voice breaks and he trails off. "I'm sorry. I'm not of any use to you like this."

(Dean stutters at that, inhales sharply.) "Not of any use to me?"

"I mean", says Castiel, "That I can't do what you want me to anymore. I'm just a man, now, useless, so you won't want me around. There's nothing I can do to help—"

"_Fuck_, Cas." Dean doesn't mean to hiss, but that's how the words escape his mouth. "Is that really what you think? That I need you so I can order you around?" Dean sighs, a lonely noise, and slides a hand down the back of Castiel's neck, bringing him forward so that their foreheads touch. "I don't need you to follow my orders, Cas. You know that. I can't believe that you think you're just…some kind of pawn for me to use! After all this time, after everything we've been through!" He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, unsure of what to say. "I just – forget it."

(You'd think Castiel would at least be able to pick up on this kind of stuff. Isn't he supposed to be _perceptive_?)

Then again, Dean thinks, nothing is ever easy with Castiel. He is the most complicated being – angel or otherwise – that Dean knows (beautiful and terrifying and weak all at once). Castiel only does what he feels he has to; never pleasures himself just for the hell of it. Unlike Dean's, his threats are never idle. He's calculating, but sometimes acts with an impulsivity that shocks even those who think they know him. He always ignores what he doesn't want to acknowledge, to the point where it's more harmful than practical. And yet, when forced to look the whole truth head-on, he hardly ever panics.

(He's fucking confusing, that's what he is, and Dean wishes he wasn't).

Fortunately, Castiel chooses not to comment on Dean's outburst. (He is the only one who will tolerate Dean when he gets angry like this, and if Dean's honest with himself, he's glad it's that way). He watches as Castiel wipes off some of the raindrops that have been collecting on his face. There's something graceful, almost cat-like, about the way Castiel moves, and Dean doesn't think he'll ever tire of watching him.

It's a while before the comfortable silence settles between them again, but eventually, it does. They sit together as the rain falls around them. Dean doesn't restart the conversation, and neither does Castiel.

Somehow, out there in the cold and dark, Castiel's head finds its way onto Dean's shoulder. All of the hard panes of his body fit themselves around Dean, soft and safe, and it reminds him of the feeling he gets when he turns the key in the Impala. Dean feels content, like this; like he never wants to move again, even though he knows he'll have to (eventually).

The two of them stay there in the rain for a long, long time.

(Dean thinks it's weird how he can't feel the cold anymore).


End file.
